Demigod
by Fellowshipper
Summary: Jay has a moment of quiet reflection for what is his and will likely never be again. (Jay/Adam slash)


Title: Demigod  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. If only I did...  
Rating: PG-13 for slight language and non-graphic sexual stuff.   
Notes: Just a short piece I did a while back to keep the creative juices flowing. As my usual disclaimers go, it's both real-person and slash fic, so if that bugs you, scram.  
  
******  
  
Breathe in, breathe out. They make it sound so easy in books and on TV. But then, they're just fictional characters living in a world of cardboard sets and cheap paper. They've, I assumed, never been in this situation. Maybe if they had they'd be more convincing and not try to fool everyone into believing ridiculously loud panting and screaming and muffled curses are all that's involved in this . . . this thing. This act. I don't know what to call it.   
  
Breathe. Gotta keep telling myself that or I'll forget and stop breathing. Then I'll turn a pretty ugly shade of blue and you probably wouldn't appreciate that. Not right now, anyway.  
  
I never found breathing to be that much of a difficult task before now. Of course, I can't really remember the last time I was on my back like this, either. That might have something to do with it. I keep trying to catch my breath, managing to just take in small little choking gasps instead, and you keep kissing me at the oddest moments and stealing away what little breath I've managed to gather. You don't have to steal it, you know. I'd gladly give it to you if you asked. I'd give you my dying breath if you wanted it. If you don't slow down and let me calm down, you might very well get it.   
  
It's . . . well, surreal is about the closest I can come to providing an accurate description of this. Some Pearl Jam CD is playing in the background from the stereo you were fiddling around with a few minutes ago. I have to admit, I think it's very subtle but still funny that Evenflow is playing right now. I always liked that song, but I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to it the same again now.   
  
Besides the CD providing entertainment to keep me from going insane, I can focus on how suffocating it is in here. I'd forgotten how hot it could get in here, but I guess that's what happens when the air conditioning breaks in the middle of July. The sheets are cool and dry beneath me but still they're doing little to help matters any. Despite not being cool enough to compensate for the stifling heat in the room, they smell like . . . you. Your cologne. Your shampoo. Faint traces of smoke here and there -- you're sneaking cigarettes in even while insisting you're quitting. Liar. Perfume. Hers.   
  
It's an unwanted reminder that I'm only here on borrowed time. *Her* time. Just a few minutes ended long before I want them to while she's gone and I try to force in all the ways that I care about you. Love you, even, sad as it is. I'm like some lovesick little boy chasing after someone he knows he can't have, but I'll be damned if I can stop myself.   
  
You, though, being the happily oblivious bastard you are, aren't paying the least bit of attention to my little inner struggle. My head could explode from the stress of it all and you probably wouldn't even notice. Instead, you just keep taking your precious time with light trails of kisses down my body. God, I wish I could hate you enough to smack you. Tease. Your hair's come loose from where you had it tied back, and the tips of it keep brushing against my skin. It tickles but I'm too out of it right now to laugh. Too out of it to do much of anything, really, so I'll just stay where I am and grip the sheets like a dumbfound mime.   
  
I wish I could just bury my hands in your hair and hold you there forever, but even as the thought crosses my mind a million more are there to slap me back into reality. You're not mine, not anymore -- if you ever were. Her hands lace through your hair and rub circles along the scalp, her mouth looks at your roots and lets you know your highlights are fading. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intensely jealous. I just don't know exactly why I'm jealous, but some things aren't meant to be known, I suppose.   
  
As if finally aware that I'm still up here, you look up at me from where your head's resting against my stomach, fixing those green cat eyes on me and offering a lazy, sleepy little grin that might make me melt before the heat does. You don't say anything, but you don't have to. We both know that. At least that's one thing I'll always hold over her -- we've never actually had to verbally communicate what we're feeling with each other. Cheesy as Hell, I know, but it's true.   
  
My hands move without me realizing what it is I'm doing, and before I know it I'm running my fingertips along your cheek. Your eyelids flutter shut and you press a gentle kiss to my stomach, then crawl your way back up until your face is looming over mine. I have to admit, I'm a little flustered when I feel a bulge pressing against me even through the denim jeans we're both wearing. I jump as your hands trace a path down my sides and stop at my hips, inadvertantly making you lose your balance and fall between my legs to grind against me. Being mortal, I do the only respectable thing I can do and moan like an overly hormonal teenager. You blush a little but keep that stupid grin on your face. I hate you.   
  
Sometimes I think there's some buried part of you that's a sadist, given how you seem to like torturing me with the way you move, the way you look at me. This would be one of those times. Still between my legs, you're giving me this look like I'm some kind of prey or something, and it's getting to me. You're almost making me forget to breathe, even though I could die happy right now.   
  
You grow bored after a while and crawl back up to press your lips against mine. Your goatee-thing that you're trying to pass off as a beard scrapes against my face and I choke back a comment about wishing you'd shave it off. You never listened to me before, and besides, I'd really rather not break this kiss. Not that you've ever been an exceptional kisser. Just that you're more careful and agonizingly patient than anyone I've ever kissed before. There should be more people like you in the world.   
  
Despite myself, I moan into your mouth when you push your hips against mine and then slide my legs open a bit more with your knee, making it quite clear what your intentions are. I'm not about to let you get away from me this soon, not before you know what it's like to completely lose your breath, your mind, your soul to someone else all just from a harmless, innocent little kiss. I wrap my arms around your neck and hold you in place, deepening the kiss with more force than what's probably necessary. It gets the job done, at least. You pull away a few seconds later, wide-eyed and gasping, face flushed a dull crimson color, but once you're able to breathe again you grin and brush the hair from my face.   
  
Without warning you slide off me and to my side, pulling me against you so that my back rests against your chest and your arms are locked tightly around my waist. If you were anyone but yourself I'd complain miserably about being the bitch in this relationship, but being that you *are* yourself, I'll let it go. I wouldn't do anything to make you want to move. Your chin's in the dip between my neck and shoulder, and I can vaguely feel your lips grazing my ear. You're a fucking *tease* and I hate you for it, which doesn't explain why I'm letting my arms rest atop yours.   
  
"Jay-Jay?"   
  
I hide a grimace at the name. I didn't say anything when you insisted on shortening a perfectly good name to just "Jay", but I absolutely drew the line at "Jay-Jay" -- no. Not like that stopped you. You only call me that in these rare times we get alone together, so at least there are small miracles. I can't say I'm entirely upset at the name anyway, not with your voice sounding so rough but smooth at the same time, the way it always does when you're half-asleep and happy.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
I feel your arms tighten slightly and your nose poke against my hair. "I love you."   
  
Bittersweet words if I've ever heard them. You love me but you're not *in* love with me, and that hurts more than you'll probably ever know. I could pretend that I'm happy you insist on telling me that. I could break down and tell you how I spend every night wishing you were with me and not with her and how every morning I wake up without you I feel another little piece of myself die. Or I could do like I always do and reward you with a quick kiss on your lips.   
  
"I know, Adam. I love you, too."   
  
I don't see you smile, but I know you are. I can feel it against my hair, if that makes any sense at all. You don't say anything else, just hold me close and kiss the back of my neck. Yet, even with the broken air conditioner and the sweat coating both of us, I'm so cold and numb inside I feel like crying myself to sleep.   
  
But at least I know you love me. 


End file.
